Iceland's Medieval Manuscript Library
by Vegtam the Wanderer
Summary: America wants to know what happens in the next issue of Thor. So, naturally he asks Iceland. However, he gets a little more information then he bargained for….
1. Chapter 1

"You go get him!"

"No, you go get him!"

The countries shouted back and forth, arguing over who should go fetch America for the UN conference. His presence was required, but he was up in his room reading comic books—and they knew what happened when someone interrupted America when he was engaging in this activity. Terrible, unspeakable things.

"Let's pull straws!" proclaimed England. All the countries gathered around, to draw straws—all the counties, except Iceland. He thought the whole affair was rather stupid—so much arguing over nothing. If America wouldn't come down for the meeting when he was supposed to, then that is that. The nations should just start without him. Iceland sighed. Always so foolish, the other nations were. Why, if the Althing stopped all its proceedings every time a jarl was late—but never mind that, Iceland thought to himself. The fools. They'll never see reason.

Iceland stroked his puffin, watching the others pull straws, distain etched upon his face. The puffin cooed.

"Norway, old chap!" England announced, after they had all compared straws. "It looks like you're going to go get him, then. Go along, then, old boy."

England seemed quite relieved that he didn't get the short straw. Iceland supposed England was sick of dealing with America. He had spent two weeks with him recently, on some sort of diplomacy thing or another, Iceland wasn't sure what. But he could say from his own experiences diplomatic talks with America were quite exhausting. Just trying to get a word in edgewise was a Herculean task and—

"Iceland. Iceland." Iceland looked up to see Norway waving his hand in his face. "You're going to fetch America."

"I thought you were going to fetch America," Iceland groaned.

"We've decided that you drew the shortest straw. Because it's practically non existent, see?" Norway smiled cruelly.

Iceland got up, and flashed his brother a look of pure loathing. "I hate you."

"But surely not? Anyway, hurry up with it, yeah? We should start the meeting soon."

Iceland got up from his corner, begrudgingly, and trudged up to America's room. He knocked on the door.

"America! The meeting is about to start!"

He heard big, boisterous footsteps running to get the door. The man whom they belonged to, equally as big and boisterous, flung open the door with gusto.

"Iceland! Just the man I'd like to see!"

"Um, America I—" Iceland said, utterly flabbergasted. He did not expect an excited America.

"Come in!" America yanked Iceland by the arm into his apartment, closing the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

After a few seconds of struggling, America managed to subdue Iceland. He held him around his waist with a viselike grip, lifting the older yet smaller nation off the ground, kicking and screaming.

"Let. Me. Go!" Iceland spat, irritated with America's unscrupulous greeting. Perhaps he should have been grateful he didn't receive the infamous you-interrupted-my-comic-book-reading-now-feel-my-wrath treatment, but being subdued in a bear hug from happy America wasn't spectacular, either. Not to mention humiliating.

"Iceland, calm down!" America plopped Iceland down on his unmade futon. Iceland stopped kicking and screaming, dumbstruck. "I need to ask you a question."

Iceland sighed. They didn't pay him enough for this. "Look, America," said Iceland impatiently, "You're wanted down at the world meeting, we need to—"

"But this is important!" America insisted, pleading with his puppy dog eyes. Iceland's willpower crumbled. There was no way he could say no to that face.

"Alright," Iceland groaned. He couldn't believe he was agreeing to this. But those eyes… "Fine, ask away."

"Okay!" America's face lit up, filled to the brim with happiness. So much emotion for such a little thing, Iceland thought to himself. It must be exhausting, living life like that. "Do you know what's going to happen to Loki in the next issue of Thor?"

Iceland scoffed, his amusement with America's extreme emotions turning into annoyance. What he expected, he did not know. (It was America, after all.) But, he had hoped for a somewhat important or pressing diplomatic question. Instead, it had been comic books. "How should I know? You created the comics. Why not ask what's his name? Siggi? Sigurd? Sigmund? Sinfjotli?"

"Stan Lee! I've tried, he won't tell me!" America moaned. "I figured since it's all based on your mythology—"

" _Loosely._ America, you know the entertainment industry better than anyone. What happens when they make a book into a movie? They change almost everything."

"This is comic books!" argued America, "Stan Lee—"

"Is no different than a movie producer. America, tell me what you know about Loki." Iceland asked, eagerly awaiting an answer. He had a feeling he was right about this Stan Lee character, glancing at last month's issue of Thor laying on America's floor. He had taken the pieces he liked from Norse mythology, and scrapped the rest, thought Iceland disdainfully.

"Well," replied America, "Loki's the god of mischief. He's the adopted brother of Thor…He was adopted by Odin and stuff after his father, the king of the frost giants, Laufey, abandoned him. But Loki doesn't know at first that he's actually a frost giant, yo, and when he finds out he's all emotionally conflicted and stuff. Then he turns evil, and he sometimes teams up with other super villains like Doctor Doom—"

Iceland decided to cut his rapid-fire inaccuracies off right there. Each was like a dagger in his soul, defacing his culture one lie at a time. Iceland had expected some variation from the original myths, yes, but it looked like the gods were the same in name only. Well, name and occupation. Loki _was_ the god of mischief. But everything else? It was like Stan Lee had never even read the myths!

"Almost everything you said is completely and totally wrong. You know nothing—nothing—about the old god," said Iceland disdainfully.

America collapsed on top of Iceland, trapping him in an awkward embrace and sobbing on his shoulder. "You mean," America sputtered in between sobs, "That Loki never teamed up with Doctor Doom?"

"No," said Iceland, straining for breath. The great idiot was suffocating him. He had to get America off, quick. Thinking if he started a new conversation, America would get off, Iceland said, "Hey, America?"

"Yeah?" America loosened his grip, thank God.

"Would you like to see the original Thor stories? We can take a trip to my medieval manuscript library."

Immediately, America ceased his bawling, and beamed. "I'd love to! Let's go!"

So, in order to stop America from suffocating him, and to prove the original Norse stories were totally better than Stan Lee's garbage, Iceland conveniently forgot all about the world meeting and took America to his manuscript library.


	3. Chapter 3

"You know you're going to have to throw that away before we go in."

They were at the door of Iceland's Medieval Manuscript Library, and America was eating a Whopper he picked up at a drive thru along the way. Ketchup dribbled down America's face as he snarfed down the giant sized hamburger. How…disgusting, Iceland thought to himself, his stomach churning.

"Don' wrry," said America, his mouth full of hamburger, "I getf it dwn." He took a large swallow, somehow getting the burger down his oversized gullet.

"Okay. Are you ready to go in, then?" Iceland gestured toward the tall, oak doors.

"Yup." America reached for the doors, but Iceland stopped him, and handed him a napkin. If America thought he would befoul Iceland's door handles with hamburger grease today, then he thought _wrong_.

"What's this for?" said America, befuddled.

"Your hands. They're a mess. Wipe them off."

"Okay." America wiped his hands. "Do you always carry around napkins?"

"Of course." Iceland had always kept a small pack in his workbag, ever since the exploding mead keg incident at the 1013 world meeting.

America gave him a sideways glance. "Oookay. Whatever works for you, man."

Iceland, ignoring America's hairy eyeball, led him into the Medieval Manuscript Library. It was a grand old building, an architectural monument to epic tales. Reliefs of the bygone Viking Age were carved into the marble pillars, depicting ancient voyages and the conquering of distant lands. The library had an aura of magic, like a place where elves and svartelves might come to stay. It had a homey feel about it, and Iceland knew he would always be able to come here to find refuge in his stories. Nothing pleased him more.

He showed America to the security desk. There, a young woman, Borghildr, greeted Iceland with a smile.

"Hello, Mr. Iceland! How lovely to see you here today. And you brought company!" The young security guard beamed at America. "Mr….Mr….England is it?"

"No, I'm America. The Hero! Surely you've heard of me?" America did this ridiculous pose, and tripped over his own feet. Immediately, he sprung back up. "I'm okay! I'm okay!"

Borghildr stared at America nervously. That poor woman, thought Iceland. She dealt with the public all day, yes, but the public wasn't America, the hyper and insane. Iceland resolved to give her a pay raise after this was all over.

"Of…of course," stammered Borghildr. "Just step through the metal detector, now, go on."

Iceland went through without any trouble, but naturally America had fifty kilos of firearms on him. Thus, they got caught up in security.

"It's just my handgun!" America protested as Borghildr confiscated it, "I don't go anywhere without my Colt, yo! What if I, like, need to be the hero and stuff and save the library from terrorists who hate Icelandic literature?"

Borghildr gave Iceland a look like, _Who is this guy, and why on God's green earth did you bring him?_ Iceland returned it with a casual shrug, but really, he too was starting to question his decision to bring America here. After all, what kind of person carries ten different kinds of weapons wherever they go?

"I'm sorry sir," Borghildr replied coldly. "It's library policy. They'll have to wait here with me."

"But…but…"

Iceland grabbed America by the arm and yanked him away from the security station, all the while shouting apologies back to Borghildr. He hoped she would accept them. She was a lovely security guard, really.


	4. Chapter 4

They were standing outside the reading room, and Iceland was briefing America on how to handle medieval manuscripts—a very arduous task, because America would zone out every five seconds, and Iceland would have to repeat himself. After about the fifth time explaining how one must not hold a manuscript open with one's fingers, Iceland completely lost it.

"I swear to God and the Church of Iceland that if you in any way, shape or form, defile my manuscripts, I will kill you. I don't care if I don't have a standing army. I will find a way. And you will be sorry you ever were born. Do you understand?"

"The Church of Iceland…Hey, England has a church, too, dude! You guys should totally get together sometime!"

Iceland hung his head, exasperated. America clearly missed the point. _Again._ "Look, America, I'm not interested in going on a date with England. Just…just don't touch the manuscripts, okay? I'll flip the pages. You just look," sighed Iceland.

"Okay. Just look. Got it." America gave him a thumbs up.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

Iceland knew America would probably try to touch the manuscripts, despite promising not to. And yet there was this deep desire to share his literature with an interested party, no matter how potentially destructive. So, Iceland, thinking himself slightly insane, opened the door, and they proceeded to the reading room.

Despite having gone to this room millions of times, it never failed to take Iceland's breath away. Scholars sat at wooden desks, bent over documents and taking notes, with their little green lamps turned on to better see the illuminations. Librarians hurried about, bringing books to and from the stacks. There was even a little window in the corner of the room, where one could look in and _see_ the stacks. Oh, the magic of a thousand million books shelved in alphabetical order. It made Iceland's heart soar.

Iceland stopped one of the librarians to make his request. " Excuse me, Siggi?"

Siggi, a kindly older gentleman, turned and smiled at Iceland. "Oh, hello, Mr. Iceland. What is your request for today? Egil's saga? Grettir the Strong?"

"No, not today," said Iceland politely, "I'd like to make a request for the Codex Regius, if it is available."

"Oh, well, you're in luck, Mr. Iceland. Jan Egilsson had just returned it."

"Oh, Jan! How's his thesis coming along?"

"Really well, actually. He's coming close to getting his doctorate."

Iceland felt a surge of pride. He had helped Jan in the earlier part of his research, and it was a delight to hear he had come so far. "Good for him!"

"So, are you going to be at the usual place? Table number three? Oh, and your friend," Siggi nodded to America, "knows all the rules for handling the documents?"

"Don't worry, I'll be handling. He's just…ah, observing."

America was now trying to see how long he could stand on one leg. He kept loosing his balance and toppling over. What Siggi must have thought! It looked as if he'd brought a mental patient in the library.

"America. Quit it!" Iceland shouted. "You're going to knock someone over!"

"Sorry," America called back.

"I'm going to get the manuscript now. Is that okay, Mr. Iceland?" Siggi whispered to him.

"Sure, thank you," Iceland replied, almost apologetically. Siggi slinked off, escaping Iceland's own personal chaos. Iceland turned to America. "Look, let's go sit down. I'll show you my usual table."

He grabbed America's arm and yanked him toward table three. Violently, he pulled out a chair, and motioned for the younger nation to sit. America obliged, but still remained oblivious to Iceland's anger; he practically skipped to take his seat, his countenance filled with glee.

"So, when is that nice, old dude gonna bring those old Thor stories, yo?" said America, bouncing in his chair as though on a sugar high.

Iceland plopped down next to him and sighed, placing his hand on his cheek. "In a minute."

"When—"

"In a minute." Iceland said, tersely.

Every ten seconds, America would ask that same question, and Iceland would give the same response. It was the longest five minutes of his life. When Siggi finally arrived with the Codex, Iceland almost hugged him.

"Thank you so much."

Siggi raised an eyebrow, befuddled by Iceland's uncharacteristic enthusiasm. "Sure. Enjoy, Mr. Iceland." He left the two nations to their manuscript study.

Iceland gingerly placed his most valuable book upon a red cushion, designed to keep it open without damaging the fragile binding.

"That's a pretty big book," America said, impressed, "Which one should we start with?  
Iceland thought for a minute. What would be the most shocking, the most outrageous… "Thrymskvida. The lay of Thrym." Iceland smiled evilly.


	5. Chapter 5

Iceland gingerly turned to the Lay of Thrym, America leaning over him like an excited child waiting for his allowance.

"It's like, in a different language, yo!" America exclaimed, once Iceland got to the right page. Iceland sighed. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately.

"Yes, America, Old Norse. How very…observant," said Iceland, exasperated. America, in his typical fashion, was completely oblivious to Iceland's sarcasm, and merrily continued with his questioning.

"So you speak old Norse? That's so cool!"

Iceland shrugged. "I mean it's not like a giant feat or anything. Icelandic and old Norse are similar enough that I can read it without too much headache."

"Oh. Well, I can't read any old English, so… England tried to get me to read Beowulf once. The original. Dude, what the heck happened to the English language, anyway?"

"You English speakers absolutely refuse to regulate and preserve your language, like I have. That's what happened," said Iceland disdainfully.

America, to his surprise, looked intrigued. "How would I go about doing that?"

"For starters, stop using slang. Become a grammar Nazi."

America made a face like he smelled something aweful. "I can't grammar."

Iceland sighed (again). Honestly, he didn't see why it was so hard to proofread things, and speak like an educated human being. But, of course, it _was_ America. What was he thinking?

"Alright." Iceland cleared his throat, and began to read, translating as he went. "Wild was Vingthor—"

"Vingthor?!" said America, quite loudly. A couple of scholars nearby turned their heads.

"Hush. It's another name for Thor. May I continue?"

"Yeah, sorry. Go on." America motioned for him to continue.

"And when his mighty hammer he missed—"

"Thor had his hammer stolen?! But I thought only those who were worthy could pick up Thor's hammer? How could it have been stolen?" America practically screamed. His voice echoed off the walls. Now, all eyes in the library were on them. Iceland turned a brilliant red. Oh, what his people must think of him now, bringing this loudmouthed man into his library!

"Not in the myths," said Iceland, trying to remain calm and collected. "Basically anyone who was strong enough to pick up the hammer could wield it."

"Oh. Okay."

Iceland picked up where he left off. "He shook his beard, | his hair was bristling, As the son of Jorth | about him sought. Hear now the speech | that first he spake: 'Harken, Loki, | and heed my words, Nowhere on earth | is it known to man,

Nor in heaven above: | our hammer is stolen.'"

America sat, intrigued and silent, as Iceland recited the lay of Thrym. Finally, when they had finished, America asked his first intelligent question of the entire day.

"So, why did Thor, sacrifice his manhood and stuff? He's like the manly man's manly man. Why did he give up that image?"

"But if he didn't dress up like Freya, then Asgard would've fallen to the giants. He sacrificed his image to save others. I think it was a very noble thing indeed."

"Would that mean Loki's noble, too," inquired America, with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Do you think he went dressed as Thor's handmaiden to make Thor feel more comfortable so he could go and do what needed to be done?"

Iceland shrugged. "Perhaps. Loki is never really acts nobly, though. I think he was more motivated by self interest—he didn't want the giants to destroy Asgard any more than the next guy."

"Well if he was motivated by self interest, wouldn't Loki care about sacrifiing his own image?"

Iceland laughed. "No. If there's one thing Loki doesn't care about, it's his masculinity. He gave birth once, as a matter of fact. To Odin's eight legged horse, Sleipnir."

The look on America's face was priceless. "What? How—"

"Never mind. Never mind," smiled Iceland, laughter pasted all over his countenance. "Which one do you want to go onto next?"

"You pick."

"How about a hero lay? Helgi Hundingsbane?"

"Cool."

And so went America's and Iceland's meeting in the library. They discussed stories, they laughed, they cried, they fanboyed. They had an all around good time. Meanwhile, the world meeting was in chaos….

(to be continued)


	6. Chapter 6

Denmark sat in the back of the room, avoiding the chaos and petty arguments. Normally, he was all for getting into petty arguments—don't be mistaken—but he wasn't in the mood. It had been a long week for him, financially and politically. The spatula battle in his parliament, the dip in the stock market, the aliens from outer space abducting random citizens….Well, okay. There were no aliens. But there might as well have been.

Denmark pulled out his emergency Legos. He always kept a bunch in his briefcase, in case he got bored. Lovely little blocks, Legos. They link together so nicely, never toppling over. Ingenious.

England shouted at France, Greece tried to kill Turkey, Romano judo flipped Spain, and Russia terrorized the Baltics. Yet Denmark didn't care. It wasn't annoying in the least. He was building a tower to the moon, and that's all that mattered. Nothing could pull him away from his beautiful Lego creation….

Suddenly, a foot kicked his lovely creation over. They didn't fall apart, naturally (they were Legos), but Denmark was fuming mad. He looked up, eyes flashing, to see the culprit. _Norway._

"I am going to flay you alive and sacrifice you to the almighty Tyr, so God help me," growled Denmark, through gritted teeth.

"Look, they called the meeting together. We need to sit," said Norway coldly.

"Well, you could have just told me. You didn't have to knock over my Legos, jerk face."

Norway sighed, giving Denmark the "God, you're stupid" look. "A nuclear bomb could have gone off, and you would have continued to play with those Legos. Come on. Let's go."

"Fine." Denmark trudged to his assigned seat, which (unfortunately) was right next to Norway's.

At the helm of the meeting hall, much to Denmark's surprise, was England. Maybe he got sick of arguing with France….? No. That would _never_ happen. Yet it was odd England was the one taking charge…usually, that was Germany's job. Where was Germany? Denmark thought, looking around. How unusual.

"Alright, alright, everybody pipe down," England addressed the crowd, using a loud, booming announcer's voice Denmark hadn't heard before, "It's been an hour. Iceland still hasn't returned with America. So, I think we should probably get started now." England scanned the room, finally settling his eyes on a blond nation sitting in the front row. "Hey, Belgium?"  
"Yeah?" she responded timidly. Denmark craned his neck, trying to see what England was asking her about. He noticed, beside her, was an empty seat.

"Where's Netherlands?"

"He's probably in the bathroom getting high. Again," Belgium sighed.

England nodded. "Oh. Okay, then. Well, I suppose we'll start without him. First topic on the agenda: sanctions to Iran."

Iran got up from his seat promptly. "But how will I know who's sanctioning me if everyone's not here? Mr. Netherlands, Mr. America, Mr. Iceland, Mr. Germany, Mr. Switzerland. All absent!"

With those words, the whole assembly was in an uproar. England had to yell at the top of his lungs to get everyone quiet.

"Damn you bloody wankers! Shut the hell up, why bloody don't you?"

"But what about everyone who's missing? We cannot let poor Iran be in the dark about his sanctions!" France exclaimed passionately. He got a few roars of approval from the crowd.

"Listen! Germany and Switzerland are working out some bank transfer—I don't know what—so neither of them could be here. Mr. Netherlands is stoned in the bathroom, so his decision wouldn't be sound, even if he was in this room—"

"But that would be perfect!" said Iran, leaping from his seat. Everyone looked at him with suspicious eyes. Iran shrunk back into his seat, embarrassed he revealed his nefarious plan. Or something, Denmark wasn't sure. (The guy was pretty sketchy, though. He probably did have a secret underground lair, like a James Bond villain.)

"And Mr. Iceland disappeared after he went to fetch America for the world meeting." England continued.

"We could send out a search party or something, with people who know them best, you know?" Denmark shouted from the back of the lecture hall.

England got this thoughtful look on his face. "That's an excellent idea, Denmark. So, how about you, Norway, emm, what's his name? Oh, yes, Canada. Yes. You, Norway, Canada, and I."

Denmark felt a lurch in his stomach. He hadn't meant to volunteer himself for the expedition. He was kind of hoping England would have Norway go do it, as a sort of vengeance for knocking his Lego tower over (Denmark was still pretty miffed about that.) It would get Norway out of his sight, make Norway mad, and he could stay at the world meeting, ignoring the speakers and playing with his Legos, relishing the fact that he managed to piss Norway off. But Iceland was a colony of his once, and England knew that. Curses. How to get out of this, how to get out of this…. Denmark suddenly had the most brilliant idea. He pulled out his phone and pretended to talk to his wife: "Hey Greenland! A polar bear emergency, you say? I'll be right there! Oh, yes, of course. I'm quite busy, but for you—"

Denmark turned around and saw Norway actually talking to Greenland on his phone. Son of a mother, Denmark thought, he called my bluff.

"Hello, Mrs. Greenland. This is Norway. Yes. Of course Denmark's done something stupid! You see, he tried to weasel his way out of committee duties by pretending to call you about a polar bear incident. Yes. I'll tell him. Of course. Thank you. Bye." Norway hung up with the wickedest of grins upon his face. Denmark was ready to kill him.

"That was low. You told my wife?" screamed Denmark, his face growing redder and redder with every word.

Norway was unperturbed. "That was the point," he responded coldly.

"You foul, slime crawling, muck dwelling son of a troll!"

"I do like trolls." said Norway, unemotional as ever. Denmark continued cursing at him, sometimes in English, sometimes in Danish. With each insult Norway rebuffed with his nonchalant attitude, Denmark's vision grew redder. And redder. And redder. Soon, he felt his hand, on its own accord, reaching for his pocketknife. He flicked it open. His eyes focused on Norway's throat, and he lunged.


	7. Chapter 7

Denmark woke to the smell of rancid ketchup and puffin farts. He opened his eyes and found himself in a room that reminded him of a hamster cage, papers and tissues lining the floor. He couldn't remember…how did he get here? Something cold and sticky was running down his face. Unconsciously, he took his hand and wiped it off. It was blood.

He groaned, pain coursing through his body. He was sore; everything ached. Then a bird bit his ear. He turned his head. It was a puffin. The puffin farted.

"What have you been eating, man?" Denmark mumbled to the puffin, punch drunk.

"Why, the crispy fries and ketchup under the bed. They are my favorite," the puffin replied. "Are you here with the others?"

"What others?"

The puffin cocked his head. "Well, the ones who brought you up here, of course. Norway, England, what's his face. The ones looking for Iceland."

Denmark wracked his brain, trying to place what the puffin was talking about. It all sounded very familiar, and yet he just couldn't put his finger on it. And America. Who was America? He gave up. "Where are they?"

The puffin shrugged. "Iceland and America, or Norway, England, and the Invisible man?"

"Both."

"I don't know where Iceland and America went, but the other three are exploring America's enormous walk in closet to see if they're in there," replied the puffin.

"Could you get them?" Frankly, Denmark wasn't too keen on lying on the floor for very much longer.

"Certainly." The puffin flew off into the closet. In a few moments, he returned with Norway.

"You're up, then?" said Norway, the puffin perched on his shoulder.

"Mhm."

Norway grabbed his arm with a viselike grip. "You bastard," he said as he pulled Denmark up.

"What…what happened?" Denmark, a little dizzy, leaned against the wall for support.

"You tried to kill me with a pocket knife. Then I knocked you out with a hammer. All coming back to you now?"

He had tried to kill Norway? What? But he had just annexed him into his empire…Norway was the love of his life. Why would he do such a thing? "But…I love you."

Norway snorted. "Yeah, right."

"But we got married last week!" Denmark protested.

Norway raised an eyebrow. "What year is it?"

"1536."

Norway hung his head, distressed. "Oh, boy. Here we go."


	8. Chapter 8

"England! Canada!" Norway called to his compatriots. Canada…Canada….Who was Canada? Did Denmark miss something?

Two blonde men emerged from America's closet. The one on the left was England, obviously, and the one on the right….Denmark was pretty sure he'd never seen that man in his life. He was tall (though not as tall as Denmark), and had the tiniest of smiles—in fact, everything but his stature seemed tiny, like he was trying to be small. _Almost as if he didn't want to be seen_ , thought Denmark. _What a queer country!_

"You called?" England addressed Norway.

Norway nodded. "Yeah. Denmark's got amnesia. He thinks it's 1536."

England's eyes grew ten times their usual size. "Really? Well, I'm sorry about that. Bad year?"

"Year he forced me to marry him." Rage boiled in Denmark's stomach. He lashed out.

"You signed the marriage paper willingly! I thought you loved me!" Denmark blurted. "What happened between us?"

England's subsequent cough sounded a lot like: "France became a marriage counselor.", but Denmark couldn't have been sure. Norway shot England a death glare.

"Sorry, old chap. Allergies," said England, giving Norway an innocent smile.

Norway rolled his eyes, sighing. "Dou you know any spells that can reverse amnesia?"

England shook his head. "No. Not any without terrible side effects. There's one…it cures your memory, but it turns you into a cat for the rest of your life."

To Denmark's horror, Norway seemed to seriously consider this option. "What are the ingredients?"

"Crushed edelweiss, dragon powder, lichen from Greenland…" England's eyes lit up as his caterpillar eyebrows traveled up his forehead. "That's it! We'll take him to Greenland!"

Great. Another person he couldn't remember. "Who's Greenland?"

"Your wife," grumbled Norway, as if the response was wrenched from his voice box against his will.

"I have a wife?" Guilt filled Denmark's heart. A faceless women popped in his head, crying. _"But you forgot me! How could you?"_ she was saying. Marital problems were the worst. Also, women scared him. Flashes from his childhood flooded into his head… He shuddered.

"Yeah. I was thinking, maybe if you talk to her, things will start coming back, bit by bit," said England thoughtfully. He then turned to Norway. "Can you call her?"

Norway nodded, taking a boxlike object out of his pocket. He touched its side, and it began to glow. With his pointer finger, Norway jabbed the object. He held it to his ear, then waited. For what, Denmark could only guess.

"Hello?" Norway told the object. "Hello, Greenland."

Denmark scooted next to England, and pointed to the box Norway held by his ear. "Is that Greenland?"

England laughed. "No. That's just a phone."

Denmark raised an eyebrow at that unfamiliar word. "A phone?"

"You use it to talk to people who are far away. You can hear their voice through it, and they can hear you back."

Denmark nodded, though the concept did sound a bit far fetched. Whatever. Nothing of anything made sense to him anymore.

The puffin flew from Norway's shoulder to his own, startling him. Denmark jumped back, and his rear end flew through the wall. The puffin squawked. Canada gasped. Norway snickered. England helped him up. Denmark brushed the wall dust off his pants, and tried not to look too embarrassed. He smiled, as if to say, _Hey, I do this all the time, just for kicks! Tada!_

"Dear me. My perches don't usually fly into walls when I land on them," remarked the puffin, shaken but bemused.

"Oh yeah, well I'm a special sort of perch. A perch three sixty." Denmark grinned. The puffin nodded, then flew on Canada's shoulder. He didn't crash into the wall like Denmark did. Canada just wasn't that cool.

Norway walked up to them, the phone by his side. "Your wife is at the semi annual territories convention in Puerto Rico."

"I'll take him there, then? Unless you want to, of course," England said.

"Not particularly."

England grabbed Denmark's hand. "Well, let's be off, shall we? Before you break anything else, that is."

And so Denmark, eager for answers, followed England to the airport.

* * *

Canada turned to Norway, after they left. "What do we do now?"

Norway shrugged. "Next plane to Iceland, I suppose."

Canada nodded. They had tried nearly everything else they could think of (calling them on the phone, magical summons, etc.) and none of it worked. It was time to go to Iceland's house.

"Okay, here's a plane ticket." Norway thrust a slip of paper into Canada's hand. Canada was baffled.

"Wait, aren't you going, too?"

"No. I can't let Denmark have the satisfaction—"

Of course. He would be ditched again. It had happened so many times he should have expected it. He was so going to give him a piece of his mind!

"Yes, of...of course," Canada found himself saying. "I understand."

Norway gave him a small smile. "Thanks." Then, Norway disappeared into a cloud of purple smoke. Quite the dramatic exit, Canada thought.

Canada stood there, head hung dejectedly. What had his life come to? He let people walk over him all the time, and he was done. Canada no longer wanted to be the doormat. Instead, he wanted to be the hero, and today, Canada could be. If he found Iceland and America, he would be revered above all other nations. They would all chant his name as he entered the meeting hall, and Canada would be shaking hands and kissing babies.

"Who are you again?" asked the puffin.

"I'm Canada," he replied, his eyes alit with a determined gleam.

* * *

 **A/N: "France became a marriage counselor"-Nationalistic sentiment was spread throughout Europe by Napoleon, causing many countries to split apart. Long story short, this was why Norway split from Denmark-Norway and became its own country.**


	9. Chapter 9

The woman at the door was only five feet tall, but still one of the most terrifying people Denmark had ever met, his mother included. Her brown eyes pierced him like spears, and her scowl made him want to cower behind a tree and cry. But Denmark considered himself a brave man, and like most brave men, put on an unnecessarily large smile, gritted his teeth, and stuck it out.

"This is a convention for territories only!" she barked at them. "And why are you smiling? This isn't funny! Nations aren't allowed to witness our revels…erm, serious discussions. Go away!" She slammed the door.

Denmark turned to England. "Hey, I saw a bar down the street. We could grab a couple of drinks and—"

England furrowed his caterpillar brows together, annoyed. "God, amnesia really hasn't cured your alcoholism, has it?"

"That's a problem?"

"You old drunk, why don't you knock on the door again, see if we can actually talk to Puerto Rico this time."

"I'm not a drunk!" Denmark protested, "I just like to get drinks now and again is all. And really, I'm not sure I want to talk to Puerto Rico again. She is terrifying."

England sighed, and then walked up to the door. "Fine, I'll go talk to her. Just stay back, yeah? Also, don't smile like that. You look like the joker."

"Who?"

"Never mind," said England, exasperated. He gave the door a quick rap. An angry Puerto Rico answered.

"Didn't I tell you two to go away?"

"It's an emergency. We need to talk to Greenland."

Judging from her expression, Puerto Rico didn't really seem to buy it. "Mhm. And I'm just going to let you in here, because you high and mighty nations say it's an emergency."

"Yeah, well, see, Denmark lost his memory—"

"Shame." Puerto Rico didn't sound the least bit sorry. "Poor old smiley."

"He thinks it's 1536"

"And I should care why?"

Denmark put on his best puppy dog eyes. This _always_ worked with the ladies. Then something red and leathery flew toward his face, hitting him in the eye.

"Ow," he rubbed his stinging, beautiful face.

"Hmph." Puerto Rico stared down at him, a self-satisfied gleam in her eyes. Denmark then decided she was the living embodiment of Satan.

"Puerto Rico, please," England implored, "If you don't, I will curse you with dark magic and send a plague of fairies upon your island. Understand?"

Puerto Rico narrowed her eyes. "Is that a metaphor for something?"

"No."

She rolled her eyes, and then beaconed for them to follow her. _Wow_ , Denmark thought, _I gotta threaten stubborn people with dark magic more often. Talk about effective!_

Inside Puerto Rico's mansion, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of territories discussing various issues with each other. Some sat at the wooden tables, eating, drinking, and having a good time. Others engaged in awkward (at least for Denmark) public displays of affection. So much kissing….

Then, his mind drifted to his wife. He needed a drink. He would be meeting Greenland; he didn't know how she would react, what she would say….Denmark's thoughts raced and raced, like a man running from a bear. What would happen, what would happen…

Then, the group stopped at the patio next to Puerto Rico's oversized bathtub. There, sprawled across the floor, was a dark skinned, bright eyed girl smiling with unadulterated joy. Her friends poured ice all over her, and she laughed heartily, making ice angels. In short, she was a _goddess_.

"Nunavut! This is great! You should totally try it!"

Her friend laughed. "Does it actually keep you cool?"

"Yeah. I mean it's great and all here, but it's so hot!"

Puerto Rico called out to the girl lying on the patio: "Hey, Greenland. Denmark and England came to see you. About what, who knows, but you know." Puerto Rico left, glad to be done with them.

Greenland got up, and rung her raven hair out. Dang, she was attractive. Even more attractive than Norway, if that was possible. He must have threatened her with black magic to get her to marry him or something.

"Hey. I suppose you don't remember me, but—"

"You look familiar," said Denmark seductively.

Greenland looked at England, exasperated. "He is a pain."

England nodded in agreement. "Quite."

"Alright, so what do you want me to do?"

"Try to talk to him about his past, see if he remembers," England replied.

"Sure," Greenland said, and then motioned for England and Denmark to sit down with her on a bench.

And maybe their plan would have worked. Maybe, if the Isle of Man wasn't such a big, fat floozy it wouldn't have happened. But it did. He dared touch his girl.

"Heeyyyaa, England." Isle of Man tapped on England's shoulder, leaning over the back end of the park bench, his overlong red hair flapping in the breeze.

"Hey, Mann."

Then, Isle of Man got this big, wicked grin on his face. He walked over to Greenland and groped her. "Hey, babe."

Denmark's vision became red. A crazy fit of anger possessed him, controlling his every move. He would kill Mann, no, destroy him. Wipe him off the face of the earth. A growl from the depths of Mordor escaped his throat, and he spoke with the voice of Sauron. "Get off."


	10. Chapter 10

"Hey, Iceland," said America, poking Iceland's bicep, "We should reenact the Lokasenna, but as a rap battle. We could use the tables as a stage. It'll be just like a concert, except without people!"

The library had closed over an hour ago, but Iceland convinced the head librarian to let them stay longer. She made Iceland promise a million times to keep his "friend" out of the stacks and from trashing the place until she consented. Did having a rap battle on the tables qualify as trashing the place? Iceland didn't think so… Besides, even if they dirtied the tables with their shoes, Iceland had Lysol Disinfecting Wipes to clean up. It couldn't be that bad…Could it?

"Sure," he found himself saying, "Let me put this manuscript away first, though. Wouldn't want to step on it."

America beamed. Iceland couldn't believe he was doing this. He gingerly placed the manuscript in the return cart, then walked back to America, who stood atop a table ready to go.

"Come on Iceland," America beaconed, and Iceland joined him. "You can be Loki, and I can be everyone else, 'cause I'm the hero!"

Iceland chuckled. "I thought you had something against Odin."

"Only underground criminals and terrorists have as many aliases as him! He's super sketchy, dude," America exclaimed, eyes wide. "But I still want to do his part," he added quickly.

Iceland smiled and shook his head. America's childlike passion was endearing, albeit in a weird, slightly annoying way. "Alright. Who's dropping the beat?"

"Mr. You Tube." America pulled out his IPhone, clicked on a track, and pressed play. "This way, we can fully concentrate on our rapping. Or something."

It sounded pretty reasonable to Iceland. "Ready?" America gave him a thumbs up, and Iceland began to rap.

"Speak now, Eldir, | for not one step

Farther shalt thou fare;

What ale-talk here | do they have within,

The sons of the glorious gods?"

America (as Eldir) responded:

"Of their weapons they talk, | and their might in war,

The sons of the glorious gods;

From the gods and elves | who are gathered here

No friend in words shalt thou find."

And so they went, off into poetic banter land, Iceland becoming Loki, and America the various gods and goddesses of Asgard. As it turned out, America was an excellent actor. He modified his voice for each character; for instance, he gave Bragi, the poetry god, a persnickety British accent, and the various servants cockney. He did this hilarious falsetto for all the women and pantomimed their long hair. But by far, Thor was America's favorite. Iceland could just tell. The way America's _everything_ was engaged took Iceland aback when he rapped Thor's first line:

"Unmanly one, cease, | or the mighty hammer,

Mjollnir, shall close thy mouth;

Thy shoulder-cliff | shall I cleave from thy neck,

And so shall thy life be lost."

Iceland responded (rapping considerably less skillfully) with:

"Lo, in has come | the son of Earth:

Why threaten so loudly, Thor?

Less fierce thou shalt go | to fight with the wolf

When he swallows Sigfather up."

America cornered Iceland at the edge of the table, a pantomime hammer raised threateningly above his head.

"Unmanly one, cease, | or the mighty hammer,

Mjollnir, shall close thy mouth;

I shall hurl thee up | and out in the East,

Where men shall see thee no more."

Then, America came forward too far, and Iceland backed up too far _. God, what an idiot I am_ , Iceland thought mid fall. His head hit the table with an earsplitting crack, and everything went dark.

* * *

Iceland awoke to a blond, bespectacled man tending to his wounds. _America,_ thought Iceland vaguely.

"There, there," said America, using a soft, soothing voice Iceland never knew he had, "You'll be alright. It'll take some time to heal, but…" He shrugged.

A surge of pain reached Iceland's head. He groaned. America then grabbed his hand, squeezing it comfortingly. Something foreign and warm stirred in Iceland's chest. Did he have another volcanic eruption? No, that felt more acid reflux-y. Was it whiskey? No. How could he have drank it while he was unconscious? God, could it be…Love? Affection? No, no. Impossible. Absolutely not. America was the most annoying, insufferable…. What else could it be? _Pain meds_ , Iceland resolved, _pain meds are the most logical explanation._ Iceland felt his face grow hotter and hotter. _Must be morphine_ , he thought to himself.

America turn towards him, his sky blue eyes filled with concern. "Are you alright? Your face is all red."

Something about America's sky blue eyes, his flyaway hair, his concern—made the hot chocolate in Iceland's stomach grow even hotter. "I'm…I'm fine," Iceland stammered.

America placed a calloused hand upon Iceland's forehead. "You feel warm. Maybe I should go get a doctor—"

"No! No, don't do that," Iceland exclaimed, grabbing America's hand as though his life depended on it. _Was he insane?_

The pair of them locked eyes. Iceland had never noticed what a nice shade of blue America's eyes were. They made Iceland believe he was really in the sky, flying, soaring. What a wonderful feeling… Oh, joy, he really had gone quite loopy. _It's all those pain meds,_ he tried to reassure himself.

Iceland's stomach boiled with a fiery warmth. What was this? Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream. He was at a loss. Everything felt so weird, so foreign…What should he do? Instinct took over. Iceland grabbed America's head, and pulled it toward his own. Their lips touched, and Iceland could not imagine a more pleasurable sensation. It was the sauna in the winter, the hot meal after work, the balmy breeze of summer. Iceland was swimming in a sea of ecstasy, his mind melting with America's body heat.

"Why…why are you doing this?" America asked, taken aback.

"Because," said Iceland, unsure where the ensuing speech was coming from, "You are an amazing nation. You know, originally, I thought you were rather annoying, but now…now I see much more than that. You're carefree, full of live, and you make me laugh. I never thought I'd have a rap battle with somebody in a closed library. And yeah, I fell off the table. But it was fun! And then you saved me, and then I realized something. I love you, America."

"But…I'm Canada."

* * *

A/N: Lokasenna: Translating roughly to Loki's quarrel, it is an old norse poem where Loki goes to a party at Ægir's (a sea god) place, gets drunk, kills a servant, is kicked out, comes back, and then starts insulting everyone. The translation shown here is by Henry Adams Bellows. Look it up. It is a thoroughly awesome read.

Sigfather: Odin (one of his many aliases; he has over 200)

Shoulder-cliff: neck


	11. Chapter 11

Five seconds after Iceland's dignity combusted in the fires of hell, America barged in with a paramedic crew. Canada stood up promptly, an angry scowl upon his face.

"Where have you been for the last three hours?" Canada whisper-yelled (yes, it was oxymoronic, but accurate).

America nearly jumped out of his skin. "Cah…Cah…Canada. What are you doing here?"

Canada's scowl deepened. "I came searching for you two. You both are needed back at the world meeting. But that's besides the point. Why did you leave Iceland here, unconscious and bleeding like a stuck pig?"

"I tried calling nine-one-one, but it didn't work! So, I ran to find the hospital, but all the signs were in this weird language. Then I asked this nice old lady for directions, but she didn't speak English! Then I asked another old lady—"

"Yes, fabulous," said Canada sarcastically, "You asked all the old ladies in Reykjavik, and ended up running around the city for hours trying to find the hospital. Excellent job."

"Oh, sure," America retorted, "Mr. I-refused-to-wear-a-helmet-playing-ice-hockey-'cause-I-thought-it-was-manly-and-now-I-have-so-many-concussions-I-can't-even-think-straight. Like you wouldn't have done the same."

An argument over who was the better hockey player ensued. Iceland, for his part, tried to melt into the wall. He would be forever shamed, forever embarrassed… Oh, what had he done? Holy mother of Scandinavia, had his impulses at last come to rule him? His actions had been so…presumptuous. He didn't ask America—Canada, whatever—if he wanted to be kissed, no. The feeling had simply swept ahold of Iceland, and he acted upon it. So much feeling, so much emotion, and so little logic, so little reason. It scared Iceland to death. Because he didn't ask, he kissed the wrong person, and he thought another had saved him. What did this mean? What was his life coming to? And how would he ever face the other countries again?

Iceland answered that one for himself. He would become isolationist. Perhaps, he would join a friary. Yes, that would be perfect. No talking, vows of chastity, lots of booze…there were loads of benefits.

"May I see your cut?" said a man's voice.

Iceland looked up. A paramedic knelt beside him. "Sure." Iceland pulled back his bangs, exposing the fateful wound.

"Mhm…" said the paramedic, examining Iceland's stiches. "Well, Mr. Canada seems to have done a good job. They're all nice and even. It doesn't look infected. I think we're all good here."

"Okay," Iceland whispered into his lap. The paramedic left, and then Canada and America went to his side. _Joys upon joys_ , Iceland thought to himself. _More potential embarrassment!_

"Do you want to go back to the world meeting? Or, I guess since you are all, you know, er…" Canada gestured to Iceland's scar, "banged up, I figure you don't have to."

"No thanks," said Iceland without hesitation.

"Well, we—me and America, that is—are going back to the meeting. I guess, we'll, ah, see you around and all. Yeah?" Was it just Iceland, or did Canada seem more uncomfortable speaking to him? (Not that Iceland was surprised. He would be, too, if he was assaulted with kisses by a man he barely knew.)

"Cool hanging out with you, Iceland. You should totally come over to my place sometime. I'll show you the Library of Congress." America said, positively chipper.

"Sure," Iceland replied, not really meaning what he said, "I'll think about it."

America's countenance lit up with glee. "Yay! Well, I'll see you then, whenever that is. I'll call you! Yeah!"

Canada tugged America's arm. "C'mon. We've got to go, or we won't make it for the end of the meeting, and nothing will get done, and I can't be the hero!"

"You can't be the hero. I'm the hero," said America, bewildered.

"Just…just come on."

Canada pulled America out of the library, and finally Iceland was alone. Thank God. Now to sign up for the monastery.


	12. Chapter 12

"Sigrun, you don't understand!" Helgi pleaded with his significant other, who was blocking the doorway, "I must kill Hoddbrodd. Let me avenge you. Let me take back your honor!"

His lover sighed, and shook her head. "Sit down for a second. You don't have to avenge me right this instant. Now, let me call your brothers, and we can sort this out in a rational manner, yes?"

"Sinfjotli and Hamund?"

Sigrun's look of concern deepened. Perhaps that pervert scarred her more than he thought… He wrapped her in his arms, and stroked her long, black hair.

"It's okay, it's okay," Helgi whispered gently to his lover. He leaned down and kissed her head. She looked up at him, her lovely brown eyes pleading.

"Oh, Den," Sigrun sighed, placing a small, slender hand upon Helgi's face. "What has happened to you?"

"Den?" said Helgi, affronted, "Who's Den?"

"Y…you." Sigrun stammered.

Helgi gave a good, hearty laugh. To think his good, faithful wife would ever cheat on him! "No, dear Sigrun! I'm Helgi! Always have been, always will be."

Tears pooled in Sigrun's eyes. "The thing is, Den, you never were. Oh, where did you go, Denmark?"

Helgi opened his mouth to speak, but Sigrun stopped him. "Just…just sit down." She led him to the old, straw bed. He sat down, figuring it would be better not to argue.

"I have Sve coming," she said to him, but mostly, she seemed to be reassuring herself. "Sve and Fin. And Faeroe. It's okay, Grönland, everything's going to be alright. Ikiunnga!"


	13. Chapter 13

Sweden arrives to assess the situation. Finland was busy, Norway didn't pick up the phone (because dealing with Denmark gives him indigestion, and Greenland most definitely mentioned him in her message), Faeroe Islands was helping England reattach Isle of Man's severed head, and Canada expressly banned Nunavut (Greenland's good friend) from dealing with the mentally unstable. So, Sweden took the first flight down to Puerto Rico. _Bless him,_ Greenland thought. Little did she think his arrival would cause such a breakdown on the Danish Front...

* * *

"King Hunding!" cried Denmark, his eyes glazed over with madness, "I…I don't know how you're alive, but I swear, I will kill you however many times necessary—"

He charged at Sweden, a dagger (where he got that was a mystery) in hand. Greenland caught his arms just in time, and held him fast. Denmark squirmed, trying to free himself, but Greenland only tightened her grip.

"Let. Me. Go." Denmark growled through gritted teeth.

Greenland grabbed a hunting knife from her belt, and held it to Denmark's throat. "Drop the dagger, Helgi. Please. Don't make me hurt you."

Denmark, his arms now free because Greenland let them go to retrieve her own weapon, reached back and stabbed her in the thigh, making her pull away. Greenland cursed under her breath. She was an _idiot._ Biting her lip, she restrained a cry of pain.

"Traitor!" screamed Denmark, whipping his body around to face her. "You dare—"

Taking the opportunity, Sweden grabbed him by the neck from behind, choking Denmark until he passed out. "It really is as bad as you said," Sweden noted, looking down upon Denmark's unconscious form.

Greenland nodded, trying to tend to her wound in the meantime.

"Do you need help with that?" Sweden pointed to her leg.

"Yes, please," replied Greenland, her face contorted in a pained grimace.

Sweden bent over, took out a pair of scissors, and used them to cut her pant leg off. Using an alcohol wipe he pulled from his jacket pocket, Sweden cleaned her wound.

"Thanks."

Sweden nodded, and, using a scrap of cloth he cut from his jacket, dressed her wound. Lifting her up with incredible ease, Sweden walked over and placed Greenland on the bed.

"What happened, exactly?"

Greenland considered the question for a moment, honestly unsure of how to answer. "Well, somehow Denmark went crazy. Beyond that, I'm not sure."

A few minutes passed in total silence. Sweden tapped his fingers on the headboard. It rather reminded Greenland of a ticking clock. Tick, tock. She remembered a youth, about ten, who became tangled in netting when his kayak flipped over. Tick tock. He never mastered his straightjacket roll. Tick tock. The water conditions were choppy. Tick tock. His friends couldn't get to him. They were strong paddlers, but the storm was stronger. Tick tock. Five minutes pass. Tick tock. He drowns. The clock chimes. Time is up. She looked down upon Denmark's still form, sprawled across the floor. Would he drown, or could she reach him in time?

Helgi, Hunding, Sigrun, Hamund, Sinfjotli. Those named flowed through Greenland's head like an incantation. She remembered them from some distant past, some distant place… A visitor to her house, eons ago… He brought his own gods, his own stories, his own magic. She remembered vividly him trying to get others to come visit, to come settle in her place. He was the one who gave her the name Greenland. Slowly, a face took shape in Greenland's mind; a head of white-blonde hair, violet eyes, and a talking puffin perched atop his shoulder.

"Iceland. We have to find Iceland."

* * *

 **A/N:** _Rolls (as in kayaking): If your boat flips over, and you roll it back up. In Greenland, this is an especially important skill because if you capsize, you cannot get out of your boat and right it. The water is too cold. The Inuit people of Greenland train their children how to roll from a very young age, as the kayak is an important part of their daily life. There are many different types of rolls one can use for many different situations. The one mentioned above (the straightjacket roll) is done without using one's arms, and is used if one's arms are bound in some way when the kayak capsizes. It is the hardest roll to do. Other rolls employ the paddle, norsaq (a device used to propel a harpoon), one's hands, etc., and can end in various positions (there are forward ending and backward ending (i.e "layback") rolls)._


	14. Chapter 14

Finding a monastery to join was a rather grueling task, as Iceland could find none that were local. Eventually, he settled on a nice one in Belgium, where the monks brewed beer and lived in glorious seclusion. It was settled atop a hill in the middle of nowhere, glorious nowhere. The monks had welcomed him into their order, and within days he was ordained. They called him Brother Sigurdr (he didn't dare mention he was, in fact, a nation, instead deciding to remain incognito.)

After a while, the other monks seemed to realize there was something a bit… _off_ about Iceland. He would spend much of his time copying Bibles by hand, using a quill pen and writing in black letter script. They'd all sort of laugh about it, calling Iceland a real medieval man, telling him the printing press was invented eons ago, and written manuscripts were now obsolete. To which Iceland would inevitably respond: "It was hand written manuscripts that led me here in the first place."

Then, there was the self-flagellation. A practice abandoned by this particular monastic order long ago, Iceland engaged in regularly. When the other monks asked about it, he always told them it helped him better understand Christ's suffering. Really though, it helped him forget his embarrassment. Physical pain was always better than the emotional.

Despite his odd behaviors, Iceland got along quite well with the others. He would attend daily mass with them, and pray. Pray for a better life, pray for an end to his own suffering. And somehow Iceland knew, in his heart of hearts, these men beside him were praying for the same. He felt a sense of brotherhood, of kinship, with these men. He enjoyed their company, and they his.

It was four months 'til they found him. Four glorious months. It was five o'clock on a Saturday, and Iceland was copying the Book of Psalms, when Brother François rapped urgently on his cell door.

"Come in."

Brother François rushed in, panting. "Brother Sigurdr, there's this woman at the door. Dark haired, dark skinned….Claims to be a relative of sorts…I suppose she's an in law."

"Did she give you her name?"

"Arnaannaq Ilulissat," replied François, somewhat butchering it; even still, Iceland recognized it.

 _Greenland,_ thought Iceland, irritated, _Probably wants to sell me more fish._ He no longer wished to engage in international relations, damn it! "Tell her I don't want any fish, I wish to remain in isolation, I'm not dealing with this right now, or ever really. And, I don't want any fish. I have plenty."

François nodded, extremely bewildered. "Okay. I'll tell her you don't want any fish. Peace be with you, Brother Sigurdr."

"And also with you, Brother François."

Brother François left, and Iceland prayed. Harder than he had in a long time.

* * *

 _A/N: There are no monasteries in modern day Iceland. Also, Greenland's chief export is fish._


	15. Chapter 15

"Of all places, a monastery! He's not even religious!" Greenland exclaimed, upon hearing Mr. Puffin's report. He had been scouring the earth in search of his master, and finally found him, by some miracle. Greenland paced back and forth, feeling rather like a Disney villain, with the bird on her shoulder and a harpoon in her hand. Why was she holding a harpoon again? No matter.

"How did you find him?" she asked the bird.

"Well, I was in Belgium, bar hopping—"

"You're a bird!"

Mr. Puffin waved her off. "Irrelevant. So I got a little drunk, and I flew off course. Then I see this building in the middle of nowhere. So I decide to roost on the roof, sleep it off, you know? And whaddya know, when I wake up, in the gardens I see Mr. Iceland."

"How did you know it was him, and not just some random monk that happened to _look_ like him?'

"They called him Brother Sigurdr. Iceland always used that name if he ever needed to hide his nation identity, ya know?"

Greenland, though not entirely convinced of Mr. Puffin's story, was relieved that they finally had a lead. Denmark's condition had deteriorated over the past few weeks, and she was almost certain only Iceland knew how to fix it. Perhaps she should give Mr. Puffin something to eat, yes… He did travel quite a long way. She pulled out her hunting knife and hacked a piece of flesh off the narwhal carcass lying on her floor (she had just caught it that morning).

"Here, you must be hungry. Eat." Greenland pushed the piece of raw narwhal toward Mr. Puffin. He eagerly gobbled it up.

"Thank you."

"Certainly."

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Greenland got up, annoyed; she had no time for unexpected guests. She needed to dress the narwhal, call Sweden, tell him about the new development, then pack for Belgium.

"Hello?" she swung the door open trying to hide her annoyance.

"Hey, not-so-Greenland!" America tackle-hugged her.

"Hey, America," Greenland replied, smothered by America's violent embrace.

"So, whacha doing?"

"Dismembering a narwhal."

"Sounds like fun! Can I help?"

"No."

His face fell, genuinely disappointed. On a rare occasion, America would come visit her. Never did the visits have any point, but she supposed it was nice he remembered she existed once every thirty years. Just not today.

"America, I really, really don't have time right now. Come back Tuesday, okay?"

"But I have to find Iceland! I was wondering if you knew where he is!"

"I'm working on that, America. He's been missing for the past four months. We've only just got a lead."

"Where?"

"A Trappist monastery in Belgium."

America grabbed her hand, then dragged her out of her house, nearly dislocating her shoulder from its socket. "Well, then, lets go!"

"Wait, the narwhal!" Greenland fought against his grip, trying to go back to her shack.

America scooped her up like a small child and ran. "You can do that later!"

For the life of her, Greenland never imagined she would ever be in a situation quite like this one. Being carried by a nation running forty miles per hour, her landscape whizzed by while she worried about her catch, rotting away in a house now miles back (hopefully Mr. Puffin would think to tell the neighbors; above all else, she hated the idea of waste.) She could not comprehend America's spontaneous and selfish soul—for she had always been a rather regimented and selfless person. That was her existence, why she was alive. But, she also recognized that one must be flexible in life. Sometimes surprises show up when one least suspects (for instance, an overzealous America.) So, when America dragged her on his private jet, she didn't argue (much).

And off Greenland went to Belgium with unexpected company.


	16. Chapter 16

Life was a little strange, you see? The world began to spin when Iceland was discovered.


End file.
